


don't make the mountain your enemy

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Set between s1 and s2, sibling banter in 17th century france ft aramis's complicated relationship with happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 07:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15238572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: “Did I ever tell you,” he says suddenly, speaking before he can consider his words, “that my father wanted me to become a priest?”Constance nearly stumbles beside him, good woman that she is.“You’re having a go at me,” says Constance."No, I promise I'm not!""Apriest. You!""Don't tell d'Artagnan," says Aramis, "he'll have conniptions trying to figure it all out."





	don't make the mountain your enemy

**Author's Note:**

> this is all zainab's fault bc she was rewatching this show and reminding me how much i loved these characters so here we are with me finally finishing a year old wip. as i said, takes place between s1 and s2. love these 17th century siblings eh
> 
> title is from florence and the machine's "various storms and saints" and reviews are the delight of my heart!

Constance’s smacks are getting gentler.

At least, this is what Aramis tells her, with an elegant half-bow and the cheeky grace of any insufferable elder brother accompanying his words, right there in the middle of the street.

“For God’s own sake,” huffs the eternally-patient Madame Bonacieux. “I don’t know  _ why _ I asked one of you to walk me back to my own house. It’s not as though you’re doing my health any favors, and little Maurice who cleans out Monsieur Pinon’s ovens could probably protect me just as well.”

“You wield a sword with the best of them yourself, dearest Constance,” says Aramis easily, taking a bite of his swiped apple. Serge will probably tell off d’Artagnan later tonight, which is truly a sacrifice that Aramis is willing to make. 

“Hmph,” says Constance, but her cheeks colour visibly in the twilight all the same.

“Regardless,” continues Aramis (who has swallowed his bite of apple, because  _ unlike _ d’Artagnan, he was raised with manners; Constance’s hand twitches as though she means to hit him again when he pauses to point this out) -- “Athos was having a serious night of contemplation just yesterday. Said if women were allowed to be granted commissions from the King, he’d recruit you himself.”

The spots on Constance’s cheeks grow darker, but her expression barely falters, keeping her eyes on the narrow street in front of her and avoiding the over-burdened basket of a passing housewife. “You run your mouth off far too much, Monsieur.” She is silent for a moment, taking advantage of Aramis’s wise decision not to dispute her on this, and then quite suddenly lets out a long, lingering sort of sigh, the type that is not really meant to be heard or contemplated by others but which Aramis picks up on immediately. “Besides,” says Constance after a moment. “My husband would never allow it.”

Aramis says nothing to this, and takes advantage of the apple in his mouth to bite down on his tongue. Bonacieux is a pompous arse -- a vain, self-made nobody who seems to be in a constant state of compensating -- but it is not Aramis’s place to comment on this; not when he knows that Constance herself is quite intelligent and spirited enough to be fully aware of it.

“Athos can be very persuasive,” Aramis tells her instead, tilting his hat towards her and smiling. His free hand is resting on the hilt of a sword in the tell-tale way of someone who is consciously trying not to fidget absently when there is really nothing to fidget about, but in his other, the half-eaten apple is being twirled by the stem so much that he is near sure Constance wants desperately to reach out and take it from him.

“Athos can be very intimidating,” Constance corrects, a hint of a smile that is in truth much larger growing on her lips. “Lord knows Jacques thinks you’re all -- well.”

“Animals?” offers Aramis. “Ruffians? Heretics? I’ll have you know I am a deeply devout Catholic, Madame.” He tosses his apple up into the air and takes another bite, sidestepping a wayward child easily as she trips down the street, no doubt trying to get home on time for supper.

“I was going to say a bit unrefined,” says Constance in a terribly resigned voice, her smile growing to its full size. “And deeply devout?  _ You _ ? Aramis.”

“What?” He shrugs, and takes one last bite of his apple. “God knows what is in our hearts.”

“But not necessarily what’s in the skirts of the ladies of Paris,” says Constance, swaying a bit as she walks and lifting her chin. Her face softens, a bit apologetic. The growing darkness has yet to reach its purple stage, and the pink of the sky has managed to filter through the canopy buildings and into the streets of Paris, catching Constance’s ruddy hair. “You’ve got a reputation, my friend.”

“Ah,” says, Aramis, his voice light and pleasant despite the minute curl in his chest that he’d thought he’d long since left behind. “So that’s why the good Monsieur Bonacieux reacted the way he did last week.”

Constance sighs, once more, this time far louder than the first. She tugs at her shawl, pulling it more tightly around her, and for the first time this evening there is a crease between her eyebrows. 

“I told him not to be ridiculous,” she says, a little too quickly. “You’re far more a gentleman than anyone I’ve --”

“Constance,” says Aramis, quietly. He’s glancing over at her from the corner of his eye, and she bites her lip and turns her head to look back at him. “It’s alright.”

He’s many things but not a liar, though he’s been decent at it the few times he’s tried, and Constance knows this better than most. 

“It’s still not  _ right _ ,” she says, accepting his forgiveness and taking on the responsibility of condemnation in one smooth motion. She stands a bit taller, squares her shoulders, and Aramis thinks that she is truly a rare sort of friend when she adds, “you’re my friend, and a good person, and Jacques had no right to treat you like -- like --”

“Like I was going to taint his wife’s virtue with my great charm and elegant good looks?”

“Aramis,” says Constance, not exactly a reprimand; he glances away again, and tosses the apple core into the ditch, taking a deep breath that seems to lift his shoulders with it. His fingers leave the hilt of his sword of their own accord to fumble up and close around the little gold pendant that rests against the bottom of his sternum. Constance is nothing if not fiercely defensive of the people she cares for, and if her reaction to her husband’s disdain of him was anything to go by, Aramis has somehow been adopted under that blanket. He watches the lady at the end of the lane sweep her front step; she, too, is dappled by the purpling sky. At her feet plays a child of barely two, with golden hair that’s shadowed by the twilight. 

He swallows, and his fingers tighten a little around the crucifix, along with his shoulders.

“Did I ever tell you,” he says suddenly, speaking before he can consider his words, “that my father wanted me to become a priest?”

Constance nearly stumbles beside him, good woman that she is. But she recovers, more quickly than Aramis would have thought possible, and he grins despite himself, a bit lopsided.

“You’re having a go at me,” says Constance, turned to look at him and, it seems, reaching out to grab his elbow so that she doesn’t stumble over something in her path, so focused she is on his face. “You really are, I can see it in that ridiculous grin --”

“I’m not!” he says, feeling his shoulders ease up a little of their own accord, something to do with the smile on his face or maybe even Constance’s sincere indignation. “I swear, I’m telling the whole truth. I even went to seminary school and everything, for a half year --”

“A  _ priest _ ,” says Constance, and Aramis tugs her gently to the side to avoid a rut in the road. 

They stand for a moment, looking at each other very seriously, and she seems caught between utter incredulity and absolute delight. She shines, Constance does -- when she’s in a moment like this, comfortable around people and let alone to speak her mind. Aramis thinks it’s almost humbling to be the indirect cause of it from time to time.

“The spirit of the word, as you are well aware,” he says finally, gesturing with the hand not stubbornly clinging to the queen’s gift as they start walking once more, “is more important than the letter, Constance.”

Constance makes a face at him and chuckles.

“Never heard that one before.”

“Madame! The most sacred of all writings!”

“Oh hush, you,” says Constance, and to Aramis’s delight, bumps him gently with her hip as they walk, drawing the widened eyes of a passing old lady. “I go to church every other Sunday and confess my sins like any decent person and that’s enough for me, thanks.” Then she sighs, as thought to herself: “A  _ priest _ .”

“Mmm,” he says. “Don’t tell d’Artagnan, he’ll likely have conniptions trying to figure it all out.” He pauses, and nearly frowns. 

“Because you haven’t figured it all out?” asks Constance, far gentler than before; Aramis turns his head more sharply than he’d intended, to see her blue eyes bright even in the rapidly growing twilight.

“Oh, no,” he says, the smile coming easily. “I am completely certain.”

“Really?” asks Constance, dry as dust. Aramis stops them in their walk once more -- at this rate they will spend more time walking than sleeping tonight, he can’t help but think -- and looks at her hand still on his elbow, and inclines his head.

“Madame, if I may?”

She purses her lips, and then offers a raised eyebrow.

“You may,” she says, and then tightens her grip on his arms as he swings her over the muddied puddle in the middle of the street and then hops across himself. 

“I am completely certain,” Aramis continues, “that I’ve absolutely no idea what I’m doing. You’re a hero amongst men, Constance, did you know that?”

“What?” It’s a distracted word, caught somewhere between surprised and suspicious. She’s straightening her shawl and they continue their walk as before. “A hero amongst women you mean.” And then -- “but what on Earth makes you say that?”

“A hero amongst everyone,” amends Aramis, and then he hums, and shrugs, and swings his arm. A part of him wishes he still had his apple to fiddle with.

“Like I said,” says Constance, straightening up a bit. “You run your mouth off far too much.”

“I’m shouldering the responsibility of filling the world with eloquent dialogue in place of all the men who have absolutely nothing interesting to say.”

Constance stops again, in the street -- really, now -- and shifts her hold on her basket of fabrics. Her expression manages to be both gentle and firm at once and fleetingly, Aramis thinks that it’s made abundantly clear time and again why d’Artagnan is still so utterly smitten.

“Aramis.”

He straightens, and squints at the fading light dappling the alley to their left. The buzzing sounds of the common Paris nightlife have started to filter out into the open street. Embarrassment is not an emotion he’s well familiar with, but reticence -- perhaps in more ways than one. Confusion is something he knows well, but it’s difficult to put all that into words.

“As I said,” he says, “completely certain. I’m free, you see, to hold myself to account.”

Even as he says it there’s a slight curl to the back of his tongue. Constance offers a curious look, and then tilts her head. Accountability has always been an interesting concept, Aramis thinks. His fingers find the crucifix again, and the discomfort under his skin returns.

“I think I understand,” Constance says, suddenly. 

“Do you?” asks Aramis. “Well I am delighted, then.” 

She takes his arm, equally sudden, such that he’s still free to hold onto the necklace, and the comfortable warmth of her soft shawl through his jacket is oddly grounding. “Yes, I think I do. Now tell me, Monsieur, what is the pastoral recommendation for taking stains out of a chemise?”

He relaxes; an escape, offered freely.

“Stains out of a chemise? What  _ have _ you been up to, Madame.”

He remembers a while ago, Athos commenting on the nature of friendship. A contemplative mood, as Aramis had said -- but then, Aramis agrees with him that one does not make friends, but is embraced by them, in parts. And Constance is one tremendously good at embraces. He loosens his hold on the jewel between his fingers and laughs at her good-humored response, eases into her sudden declaration that she shall surely find her husband in a foul mood if they arrive at the doorstep like this.

Shoulder to shoulder, as friends. It’s not quite an easy thing to be, these days, but Constance is determined nearly to a fault. The smart of her friendly smack against his neck is enough testament to that, and Aramis finds himself sincerely grinning as they walk down the street to her house.

 


End file.
